Chapter 15 #2
“I will not dignify that with an answer. And I will not be insulted in my own home. So here,” she shoves a giant container in my arms, “take your leftovers and get out.”
I glance longingly at the three-tired birthday cake. I was told it was strawberry shortcake with icy blue buttercream frosting. “But Chloe hasn’t cut the cake yet…”
“You don’t get cake. Not with that attitude. Now get out or I’ll throw you out.”
I widen my stance, calling her bluff. “Why are you so defensive? I’ve touched a nerve, haven’t I?” I take a deep breath. With a bluntness that Elliot would be proud of, I frisk my aunt. “What were you doing sneaking off with Mayor Thornberry? Are you two-timing Uncle Tony?”
“That’s it!” Aunt Cherry grabs my arm and drags me away from the party.
“What the — Mama! Mama!” I call over my shoulder. “Are you going to let her do this to me?”
“Just go,” my mom shoos me away, “I bring you cake later.”
“Where are you taking Aunt Holly, Grandma?” Chloe pokes her head up from her circle of friends.
“Your Aunt Holly can’t stay,” says Cherry.
“Why?” Chloe asks.
“Your Aunt Holly has been very bad,” Cherry says, “and needs a time out to think about what she’s done.”
“Okay!” Chloe accepts this with a frown of resignation. “Bye, Aunt Holly!” Chloe waves.
“Happy Birthday! I’ll be back soon — Ouch! Watch it.” I rub my forearm against Aunt Cherry’s nail marks. “You did that on purpose.”
“What’s happening?” Elliot breaks off from the group and follows us back through the house.
“She’s treating me very un-cordially!” I shout over my shoulder.
“I’m kicking her out,” Aunt Cherry says, shoving me out the door. “You can stay if you like.”
“Sorry, ma’am,” Elliot slips past her, “if she goes, I go.”
“You’re a sweet boy.” Aunt Cherry pinches his cheek and pats his bum on the way out. I clear my throat and face my aunt through the transom of her home. “I hope this doesn’t affect your vote,” I say sheepishly before the door slams in my face.
* * *
Later that evening, sprawled on the floor of Elliot’s living room, evidence scattered around us, we filled each other in on our respective interrogations.
We’ve nailed a giant cork board to the wall and tacked a print-out of all the suspects’ social media profile photos. To each photo, we’ve added a sticky note of evidence. It’s a legitimate crime board. All that’s missing is the red string (shipping in my next order).
“Aunt Cherry is high on my suspect list,” I mutter over a mouthful of leftover Dan Dan noodles.
They were delicious, though she was a little stingy on the peppercorn.
I like my noodles spicy. Aunt Cherry also ‘forgot’ to add egg rolls to the package, which only confirms how much she hates me as there were plenty of egg rolls to go around. “She was snipping at me all evening…”
“Yeah. I noticed that,” Elliot says, getting up to add a bright pink sticky note under Aunt Cherry’s photo. “You never told me why…”
“She’s still upset with me for refusing to loan them $50,000 to cover Uncle Tony’s gambling debts.”
Elliot’s eyebrows shoots up. He writes $50,000 in big black marker on another sticky note and slaps it under Aunt Cherry’s photo. “Was this an issue during Thanksgiving?”
“It’s always been an issue. I made the mistake of loaning them some money once and they never paid me back.
It’s not like Uncle Tony’s going cold turkey on his sports betting habit anytime soon.
” I get up and peer at Uncle Tony’s picture, which I pulled off his Facebook profile.
He’s wearing a giant Stetson hat (he’s a regular at the tracks, though he doesn’t know how to ride a horse) and is staring down at the camera in that creepy old man way (unshaven salt and pepper whiskers and sagging jowls on full display).
In every family, there’s always an uncle (usually named Lester) your parents warned you to stay away from.
Uncle Tony was never one of those uncles.
He never acknowledged when children were around except to bark at us for blocking the TV, and he certainly didn’t care to hug, hold, or tickle any of us.
Unfortunately, he looked like the tickling kind, so my parents warned us to stay away from him anyway.
“Aunt Cherry’s more angry at me for refusing to help them out than she is at Uncle Tony for taking on a second mortgage to pay his bookie.”
I move on down the line to Aunt Cherry’s photo, also pulled from her Facebook profile.
I don’t know how some people choose their profile pictures.
What are they trying to tell us about themselves?
Aunt Cherry is dressed in an electric blue leopard tube top and coyly sipping a margarita out of a giant fish bowl.
She’s giving alcoholic cougar vibes, which is probably her intention.
“I asked her the hard-hitting questions. That’s when she threw me out. Any luck with Uncle Tony or Victor?”
Massaging the back of his neck, Elliot sucks in his breath. “They both have solid alibis.”
He tacks another sticky note under Under Tony’s picture. “Photographic evidence and witness accounts puts Tony on your couch the entire time. The man is like a TV watching machine. He never got up to use the bathroom.”
“What about Victor?” I ask, moving to the photo of my cousin. This was taken during his DJ phase when he was rocking snapbacks and muscle tees endorsing energy drink logos.
Ivy’s photo is next to her husband’s mug shot. She’s sitting in the lotus position, meditating on the sands of a Bali beach, her face so filtered she doesn’t even look like herself. I don’t need to tell you I printed it out from her Instagram profile, where she currently has 102K followers.
“Your UPS man was right.” Elliot shakes his head, probably to rid his memory of their conversation. “Victor was kind of — How do I put this nicely?”
“A tool?” I blurt out and immediately cover my mouth. “Sorry. I never liked Victor. Did he try to rope you into investing in crypto?”
“There was some talk of crypto,” Elliot says. “Mostly he was trying to talk up his podcast.”
“Yikes!” I rub my temple. “He’s got a podcast now? I shouldn’t ask, but… what’s it about?”
“Male dating advice and couples therapy. His wife is a co-host.”
I shudder. “Okay. No judgement.” I’m judging pretty hard. “Where were they during my party? I didn’t see them in the kitchen. The kids were in the living room, quietly playing like little adults. They don’t have a choice but to be adults. Their parents are such children.”
“We’re clearing the kids?” Elliot asks.
“You’ve met Chloe and Tristan. Ordinarily, a four-year-old is a likely culprit, but Chloe has long been potty trained and has excellent table manners.
Tristan may be seven, but he has the mannerisms of a forty-year-old.
He’s skipping a grade next year. I can’t imagine these two model citizens pooping under my tree.
Their parents, however… I don’t know. Like his mother, Victor is tiffed with me for refusing to invest in his many business schemes. ”
“The kids are cleared.” Elliot yanks off their photos (procured from Ivy’s Instagram account. She’s trying to make her kids internet famous. It’s a long story). “The dog is cleared…” Down goes Mochi’s picture. “Victor and Ivy?”
I fold my arms over my chest and tap my foot.
“You have to admit, it’s a bit suspicious that they disappeared all night.
Maybe they joined the party in the backyard?
Maybe they were in the basement… defecating on the third step.
Ivy is a yoga instructor. If you think my mom’s spry, Ivy is practically a contortionist. And Victor…
I mean,” I gesture to his old DJ photo, “tell me this is not the face of a guy who takes spiteful shits under Christmas trees?”
“He does look like a spiteful shitter, but he didn’t do it. After talking to Victor,” Elliot turns to me with a grim expression, “I have to clear both of them.” He yanks their photos from the board.
“What possible alibi can they give to clear them this easily?”
Elliot backs away from the crime board and braces his hands on his hips, eyes downcast to his bare feet, his ears pinking. “So about their podcast…”
“Yeah?”
“Remember the couples therapy component?”
“Yeah?”
“There’s also a video component,” he pauses, searching for the word, “like a vlog. An up-close-and-personal vlog.”
“Sure. A lot of podcasts are filmed.”
“This one’s of the instructional variety.”
“Okay… Like a How-To?”
“Kind of.” Elliot nods, scrounging for the right words. “In any event, they filmed the vlog while at your party, so they were nowhere near the tree nook or the basement.”
“Wait,” I hold up my hand, trying my hardest to piece together the bizarre whereabouts of Victor and Ivy. “They just left my party to film their podcast, er, vlog? But they came back to collect Tristan and Chloe later that night?”
“They never left your house,” Elliot says, looking up at me apologetically.
“Well, if they never left… Where were they? And how can you trust what Victor tells you? He’s a known liar!”
“Because he sent me the video,” Elliot says, his cheeks coloring. “Just trust me. They have an alibi.”
Still skeptical, I hold out my hand. “Show me the video.”
Elliot clenches his teeth. “I don’t think you should see it.”
I snort. “I think I can handle a podcast.”
“I don’t think…”
“Too late. You can’t mention a video without showing me the video…” I plop down on the sofa. “Show me.”
“Okay,” Elliot says, settling down beside me. “But I warned you. You’re not going to like it.” He pulls up the file, hands his phone over.
I press play. “They’re going upstairs. No one’s allowed upstairs… What the — that’s my room!” I jump to my feet. “Why are they going to my bedroom?”
“You get the general idea.” Elliot tries to take back his phone.
I turn away. I can’t stop, even though I know I’ll regret it. I fast forward three seconds. “Not my bed. NOT MY BED!”
I toss Elliot’s phone back to him like it’s a hot potato. I don’t want to see the rest of this. I’ve seen too much already.
My eyes…
My bed.
My sheets.
“I went to bed that night and rolled over onto something wet…” I squeak. “I thought I had a leaky roof. It’s not a leak, is it? It’s a… it’s a…” I want to hurl.
Elliot grimaces. “A love stain.”
I glare at him. “Euphemisms aren’t helping.”
“Come again?”
With shaking hands, I touch my cheek. “I need to wash my face. I need to wash my face now!”
“There’s no need to freak out.” Elliot follows me to the bathroom and watches me dispense three dollops of my very expensive cleanser onto my palms and frantically lather my face. “At least we know they didn’t do it…”
“I’m never inviting Victor and Ivy to my house ever again.” I splash water against the mirror. “They’re banished. Banished! And I’m buying new sheets. Buying a new bed.”
Elliot leans against the doorway, amused. “Or you could just do laundry.”
I whirl on him. One look at my face made him back off.
Marching back to the crime board, I prop my hands on my hips. I exhale and try to focus. What I need right now is to compartmentalize. We’ve got poop on the floor and stains on the bed. Man, I really need to change up my circle of acquaintances.
“There’s only one more person to question.
” I peer at Mayor Thornberry’s lionesque profile, pulled straight from his campaign poster.
In his early fifties, he’s still rocking an enviable mane of salt and pepper hair.
His face is handsome, dignified, and trustworthy.
I recall the glowing college recommendation letters he wrote for me.
The meaningful life lessons he’d bestowed upon me when I interned for him.
Mayor Thornberry was like a surrogate father to me.
“Ivan is a good man,” I whisper. “A good man. Please be a good man…”